


Method of Loci

by moonblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental character study, Dirty Thoughts, Experiments, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending, Impossible sexual scenarios, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Palace, Pining, Self-Loathing, Shame, coming while clothed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1302088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The inside of Sherlock’s mind palace is a decidedly filthy place sometimes. Thankfully, it’s not really masturbation if you’re not touching yourself. Unless you get caught.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Method of Loci

John’s footsteps as he heads down the stairs are even, measured, but quick. Determined, but upbeat. He’s off to run errands, and he’s in a good mood, which means he’ll take his time. Excellent.

Sherlock shrugs out of his dressing gown and reclines on the bed. For a moment, he debates stepping out of his pyjama bottoms as well, but decides against it. After all, this is a mental exercise, not a physical one. 

For a moment, he’s not sure what to do with his hands as he settles down. He rests them loosely at his hips, but that feels too close for comfort, so he crosses them on his chest. No, now he feels like a corpse, and there’s been far too much of that lately. Eventually he clasps them firmly together, steepled between his chin. Comforting, familiar. Yes, this will work.

Slowly, he lets the constructs of his mind form around him. There is a large staircase, immediately recognisable and yet so much cleaner and lighter than the one at Lauriston Gardens, directly in front of him. Meaningfully, Sherlock marches up the stairs.

Initially, this section of his mind palace had been small, tidy, practical. Much like John himself. It had started as a small offshoot of the upstairs bedroom at 221B Baker Street, but within hours of their meeting it had become apparent that the room would never be enough to hold the vast wealth of hidden information that made up John Hamish Watson. Sherlock rolls the name around in his head, feels it painting itself across his skin. Outside, in his bedroom, he shivers slightly.

John is standing at the top of the staircase, an unassuming smile on his face, hands in his pockets. For the moment, he is vague, shadowy. Half-formed.

Steadily, Sherlock builds the construct. Layer upon layer. It's delicate, precise work. He starts with the most evocative of the senses, inhaling deeply. Fresh out of the shower, John somehow still smells like himself. A hint of the thrifty, reliable soap he uses. Damp clean cotton. Under it all, a current of slightly stale tea, copper, and a blend of sulfur and potassium nitrate. Dull reliability with a core of danger. He can taste it all on his tongue, sharp and bitter and delicious.

His fingers recall the feel of John. Denim, knit wool, woven cotton. Fabrics somehow soft and coarse, gentle and sturdy. Even his jumpers are a metaphor. John's hair, soft. So much softer than it looks. Sherlock's fingers twitch, inside his mind and out there, as he continues to build. And under it all, John's skin, dry and warm. Every time he's touched John's bare skin, it's been almost feverishly hot. Sherlock makes a mental note to record John's basal temperature next time he seems to be in an indulgent mood.

He continues filling in the image. Sight, sound. The easiest. John's hair, neither blond nor grey, and yet both. John's eyes, blue, but so dark they're nearly not blue at all. On the surface he is placid, easy-going, unremarkable. Inside, he is a walking contradiction, an endless complication. The perfect puzzle.

John-but-not-Really laughs, as if he can hear Sherlock's thoughts. Certainly, in here, he can. They shout from the rooftops, echo down the hallways. Not only his thoughts, but his innermost feelings. The one he's not even truly been able to admit to himself, let alone anyone else.

Sherlock steps forward, crowding the John of his mind, the John of his heart, and abruptly they are in Sherlock's bedroom. He can't be bothered with smooth transitions. Not here, not today.

This is not the first time he's constructed John in here. Not by any stretch. But what Sherlock has in mind, this... this is uncharted territory.

He reaches up, cups John's cheek, and John smiles, willing and compliant, leaning into the touch. The image of John kisses Sherlock's palm, and the sensation is so vivid, so _real_ that for a fraction of a second Sherlock forgets where he is. His knees tremble and he stumbles, falling slowly to his bed.

John chuckles, following him.

"So, we're doing this then?" His voice is gentle, teasing but kind.

"This?" Sherlock grumbles, irritable at being unseated here. This is his mind palace, he should be King.

Almost-John grins, wolfish and eager, and gestures wordlessly to the bed.

Sherlock flushes, from his cheeks to his belly, and he's positive that outside, his body flushes too. Yet again, he's relieved that nobody is around to witness this. He nods, and John reaches out, pulling him onto the bed.

But wasn't he already on the bed, with John standing above him? He shakes his head, frustrated at the loss of control, of logic, of formula and pattern and progression.

They tumble, his mind rolling with their entwined limbs, and John is on top again, pinning Sherlock to the bed. The bed, now suddenly enormous and almost overwhelming, filling the room. This isn't right, isn't right at all, it's absolutely perfectly wonderfully right.

Nearly-perfectly-John presses gentle kisses to Sherlock's forehead, to his cheeks, to his eyelids, to either side of his mouth, before sitting up and pulling his shirt off.

This is where Sherlock's imagination, memory, observation, all falter. John is so careful, always hidden under layers of cotton and wool armour. He has gone to such lengths to keep his scar covered, as though he is ashamed of it, and it frustrates Sherlock. He needs to see, to understand, to _know_.

In his mind's eye, the entry wound is neat and clean, a shining white mark just above John's left collarbone. The exit wound is another story. Webbed, messy, evidence of battlefield surgery, infection. In his mind's eye, it is absolutely _perfect_ , a road map leading directly from Afghanistan right to Baker Street.

As Practically-truly-John drags his lips over the surface of Sherlock's throat, Sherlock lets out a low moan. He can feel his body responding, his cock twitching with interest, his fingers itching to explore John's body.

So they do. Here, he is free to explore, to learn. Nothing is stopping him. John's skin is silky under Sherlock's fingers, warm with blood rushing to the surface. He runs his fingers along John's spine, along his ribs, studying, measuring, drinking in every aspect of him.

He can feel an erection digging into his hip and huffs in frustration once more. Despite several attempts, Sherlock has not once managed to get a decent glimpse of John's penis, and has only clothed estimates and anecdotal evidence to work from. None of his previous lovers have ever seemed unsatisfied, and of course there's that distinctive walk. Larger than average then, but not overwhelmingly so.

Picturing it makes Sherlock's throat go dry. He swallows thickly as the construct of John's pants vanish. He's now kneeling over Sherlock, gloriously nude, gloriously aroused, gloriously _Sherlock's_. His prick twitches, rush after rush of blood flowing away from his head and into his groin.

Sherlock is only vaguely aware of how he must look outside. He can feel his erection steadily growing thicker, longer, pulling away from his body. His heart-rate and respirations have quickened, and his cheeks are undoubtedly flushed. He again thanks the circumstances that have ensured nobody’s around to witness this.

In a blink, his own clothes have fallen away, no longer needed. He takes a moment to study both their nude bodies, as objectively as he can. He has filled in the blanks of John's body, but it pains him to know that none of it is correct. John's prick looks much like his own, only thicker and longer, the hair at the base fair and soft. Sherlock shakes his head, shoving away the intrusive reminders that this is depraved, shameful, none of it is real.

John's hands are running down his sides, over his hips, almost without conscious thought. Sherlock attempts to loosen his control, let his subconscious drive things. Abruptly, John is _everywhere_

The flood of input is vague and somehow all the more staggering for it. Sherlock's inexperience in these matters is both a blessing and a curse, because nothing has ever felt as good as this. John's mouth is on his mouth, on his sternum, on his cock. Deep and wet and tight. His hands are everywhere, far too many and yet not enough to cover him properly. He bucks, flails, rolls his hips as John fills him smoothly from behind, stretching his arse to delicious fullness.

It's as if he's being assaulted by an Army of John, and all he wants to do is succumb. The tightness around the base of his cock is warm and maddening, squeezing with every thrust of the thick shaft filling him from behind. He rocks against the mattress, against every fibre of John's being, writhing in glorious abandon.

The orgasm builds hard and fast, drawing itself across his belly, up his spine, and straight into his brain. His cock twitches, engulfed in the flames of his own imagination, and he bites down on his lip to quell the strain of nonsense he's spewing out. At this point there's no denying his body, back in his bedroom, is experiencing the exact same series of physical reactions.

All the Johns coalesce into one, grabbing Sherlock and pulling him over the precipice of his orgasm in a shocking, violent torrent.

"Oh god, yes, oh Christ, no, Jesus, fuck..." 

The words, vulgar and incoherent and names that have never meant anything to him, spill from Sherlock's lips until they are interrupted with the sharp cry of the only name that will ever matter.

" _JOHN!_ "

And he's shouting, and coming, and the bricks in his mind are crumbling into dust. Everything goes dim and unfocused, and for a moment Sherlock hangs between reality and imagination, body arched taut off the bed in both worlds, cock twitching eagerly as he spills all over himself.

Groggily, Sherlock opens his eyes, back in the real world. Something about the light in the bedroom is off, far dimmer than when he’d first lain down - surely he hasn’t been caught up inside his own head for _that_ long? He groans and stretches, wincing at the vaguely unpleasant sensation of come cooling on the front of his pyjama bottoms, dripping down between his thighs.

The reason for the shift in light becomes apparent when he rolls onto his side. John is standing to the side of the bed, in front of the narrow window. The light coming from behind him casts his face into shadow and Sherlock freezes. Swallows thickly. Tries to make an effort to conceal the evidence of his depravity.

“John.” It’s not a question. It should be. The proper reaction here should be _John, why the hell are you in my bedroom how long have you been here?_. Instead the only word rattling around in Sherlock’s head is John’s name, over and over. A litany, a panicked prayer to his newfound deity.

“I should… Um. Go.” John’s voice is thick and rough. Sherlock had anticipated disappointment. Disgust. If anything, John sounds aroused, and sad. A combination Sherlock can’t quite process. “I just… I got home a bit early. You shouted my name. I was... worried.”

Shame blooms in Sherlock’s chest all over again. He sits up, leaning forward and trying to hide the mess. Something about his pose makes John giggle, and it might just be the best thing Sherlock’s ever heard.

“Stay?” The request sounds weak, reedy. A far cry from Sherlock’s usual imperious tone, and he frowns at himself.

John steps forwards, out of the stark silhouette of the window, and Sherlock takes a moment to process him better. His shoulders are a little more stooped than the John(Johns) in Sherlock’s mind, the circles under his eyes a little darker. And he is all the more glorious for it. Real. Flawed. _Here_.

Far more noticeable than John’s marvelous imperfections are the high, feverish spots on his cheeks, the way his tongue keeps darting across his lips, the clear and obvious erection distorting the front of his jeans, the way he’s drumming his fingers on his thigh. Nervous energy then, but not fear or anger. His fingers are far too loose, too open. Sherlock bites his lip, cocks his head to the empty space next to him on the bed.

At the invitation, John laughs, pained and embarrassed but somehow still amused. He hovers between the bed and the door for a moment and Sherlock’s heart pounds furiously in his ears. Eventually, spurred on by some secret epiphany, John grins, wide and guileless, and sits on the edge of the bed. He’s making an effort to stare at the periodic table on the wall, and Sherlock studies his profile.

“Christ, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I should have left as soon as I figured out what was happening. It was just…” He turns, and his eyes seem drawn to the growing wet patch darkening the front of Sherlock's pyjamas.

_Disgusting, dirty, debased._ The words thrum through Sherlock’s head, through his veins. He chews harder on his lip, waiting for John to continue.

“It was incredible. Beautiful. Christ. I’ve never seen anyone do… Were you, imagining something? In your mind palace?”

Leave it to John to figure it all out. John, who in some ways knows Sherlock better than anyone.

“You came when I shouted.” _We both did_. Sherlock can’t help it; he chuckles at the juvenile double-entendre in his head. John looks at him curiously, and Sherlock stares at the ceiling rather than face the depth in those dark eyes. “You know what I was imagining. Or you wouldn’t still be in here.”

“I… hoped. Wasn’t sure. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes but can’t hide the smile that crosses his lips. “I could ask the same thing of you, John Watson. You hear someone deny homosexual tendencies frequently enough, eventually you get the hint.”

Maybe this was the wrong thing to say, because John sighs heavily and lets himself fall flat on his back, lying sideways across the bed. Sherlock can’t help but sneak a glance at John’s crotch. His erection has flagged somewhat, but not disappeared entirely. Which seems like a good sign.

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows. He doesn’t like hearing John apologise so much, sound so sad. Tentative, unsure if it’s the right course of action but uncaring at this point, he reaches out and puts one hand on John’s knee. John doesn’t move, doesn’t lean in but doesn’t pull away. Sherlock takes it as a positive reaction, all things considered.

“John… what do you want? From me?” Sherlock isn’t entirely sure what sort of response he’s expecting. He squeezes John’s knee again, partially as encouragement and partially to quell the tremors in his own arm.

“I… everything. I don’t know. What do you want, Sherlock? Where do you see this going?”

“Right now,” Sherlock turns, facing John. John, bloody miracle that he is, turns at just the same moment, and catches Sherlock’s eyes. “I want to get out of these pyjama bottoms. And then, I think I rather want to kiss you. And possibly never stop.”

John smirks, eyes twinkling. “Not even for a case?”

Frustrated and caught off-guard, Sherlock pauses briefly before muttering, “Nothing under a seven.”

As Sherlock’s eyes slip closed, he feels John’s palm - warm, so warm, still need to record his basal temperature - cupping his cheek. He parts his lips slightly, craning into the contact. John’s breath is close, ghosting across Sherlock’s lips.

“I think,” John murmurs, his voice soft and amused as he presses his lips to Sherlock’s. The contact is electric for something so gentle. “I can work with that.”


End file.
